


let alone on a moldy page

by orphan_account



Series: young adult friction [8]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, i tried to write porn but failed i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Time Bahorel And Feuilly Got Some (With Each Other)</p><p>(but we don't talk about it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	let alone on a moldy page

**Author's Note:**

> This is the apology beforehand for the shockingly awful attempt at writing psuedo porn of two men in bed with each other.

The television is on, blaring out some awards show full of too many celebrities in expensive designer outfits they didn’t even have to buy, and Feuilly is making noises of disapproval each time someone new steps in front of the camera to do another interview, full of fake smiles and laughter.

“Dude, if it bothers you that much, turn it off.” Bahorel is nursing a half empty glass of vodka, and secretly wishes Feuilly would turn off the television so he could play some repetitive video game and blast the bejeezus out of some zombies and forget that literally all his friends are on dates or doing something interesting, at least, and he is not (except Feuilly of course, Feuilly is sitting here with him, but his relationship with Feuilly has never been quite the same as his relationship with Courfeyrac, or Grantaire, or Bossuet).

“I like to keep on top of the social media, see what bullshit they’re up to now.” Feuilly’s voice is quiet as he fiddles around with his cigarette case, pulling one out and lighting it up. He stands up abruptly, and disappears into the kitchen, returning shortly with a glass of vodka to match Bahorel’s own.

Bahorel raises one eyebrow, “you alright bro?”

Feuilly looks at him briefly, and blows out a lungful of smoke. “Yeah.”

There’s silence for a bit as they drink and Feuilly smokes. The awards show is still playing, more women in outlandish dresses and jewellery on the arms of men in expensive suits. Everyone is made up to perfection, their smiles plastered on their faces, never breaking, never faltering.

“Gross, isn’t it?” Feuilly asks.

Bahorel nods. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

Feuilly finishes his cigarette and stubs out the end in the ashtray on the coffee table. “Why aren’t you out tonight? Everyone else is.”

Bahorel takes an angry swig from his glass. “Because everyone’s out with someone else and I don’t feel like being the only loser who doesn’t have a significant other.”

Feuilly looks amused. “I’m pretty sure Combeferre isn’t. Or Enjolras or Grantaire, for that matter.”

“Enjolras and Grantaire are going to jump each other’s bones any day now. And Combeferre’s still pining over Éponine. Besides, he eats philosophy and shits out thoughts on social progress. He’ll be fine. I, on the other hand am a simpler creature who really wants to get _fucking laid.”_ He kicks the coffee table lightly with his foot.

“Don’t kick my furniture, you uncivilized cad.” It occurs to Bahorel then that like Combeferre, Feuilly is avid about philosophy and the rights of man. It occurs to him then that he’s probably feeling slightly insulted.

Bahorel, however, doesn’t care enough to apologise. He pulls his legs up onto the couch and makes a face at Feuilly.

“I would remind you that you live in my basement and everything in here technically belongs to me.” Feuilly says in an admonishing voice.

“Oh shut it, Feuilly.”

Feuilly tips his head back and finishes off his glass. Then he goes to get himself another, and takes Bahorel’s on his way into the kitchen. He returns with both of them full, and Bahorel takes his with a nod of acknowledgement.

“You know, you shouldn’t really drink vodka straight.”

“Maybe I want to get drunk,” is Bahorel’s flippant answer, as he finishes it off in one gulp. The room sways for a moment.

Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “What, and puke all over my couch in my living room? I think not.”

“Man, why you gotta be so fucking uptight? Actually, that’s probably the reason you can’t get laid either. Your foot’s so far wedged up your ass no one else can get anything in-” his speech is cut off as Feuilly tackles him off the couch and pins him to the floor, landing a punch firmly to the jaw. Bahorel works his jaw around and laughs, aware that both their glasses have been knocked to the floor, the remnants of the alcohol seeping straight into the carpet.

Feuilly leans in close. “And what, my dear Bahorel, would make you think that I would take anything up the ass?”

Bahorel grins. “Dunno. Can you let me up? This position is really awkward.”

Feuilly doesn’t let go of his arms. “You’re an asshole,” he says finally, and stands up.

In response, Bahorel grabs Feuilly around the knees and pulls him to the floor, punching him squarely in the face. Feuilly gasps loudly, balls his hand into a fist and delivers a firm blow straight to the kidney. They wrestle for a while, and although Bahorel is physically bigger and stronger, Feuilly is quicker and often gets in blows to the kidney or stomach, the product of a childhood spent fending off bullies.

Finally, Feuilly pins Bahorel again to the carpet. Their clothes are mussed up, and there’s quite a large rip in Bahorel’s shirt. Feuilly carefully reaches out his right arm and scrambles around on the coffee table, which had been kicked dangerously close to the television screen in the scuffle. Retrieving another cigarette and his lighter, he lights one up and blows smoke carefully straight into Bahorel’s face.

Bahorel breathes in and chokes ungracefully, unable to breathe properly with Feuilly sitting firmly on his chest.

“And no, you’re not getting one either,” says Feuilly in a matter of fact voice, as he carefully smokes. Bahorel grits his teeth.

“That was unfair. I demand a rematch.”

Feuilly laughs. “Unfair? You fucking took me down when I wasn’t ready and you’re calling _me_ unfair.”

“Yeah well, I’m not the one who’s sitting on my chest like a… like…” Bahorel trails off, unable to find the right words to finish the sentence.

Feuilly looks down at him. “Like a what?”

Bahorel looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Like a this is really fucking gay can you stop sitting on me!” he kicks out his legs, but Feuilly only sits down heavier on him, and now Bahorel is weirdly conscious of Feuilly’s ass dangerously close to his groin, and it brings back drunken memories of Courfeyrac’s party and this is just _weird._

Feuilly leans down to breathe smoke into Bahorel’s face. “What? Afraid of being called gay? That’s a bit rude, isn’t it, considering most of our friends aren’t straight. Besides, remember the party?”

Bahorel tries to raise one hand to flip him off, but he can’t move his arms very well, and Feuilly doesn’t notice.

“I’m not gay; I was drunk, okay? And so were you. Let me up.”

Feuilly looks like he’s considering it, before shaking his head. “Nope. This is just too fucking funny to pass up.”

“You goddamn son of a bitch!” Bahorel bucks up in an attempt to throw Feuilly off him, but too late he remembers their awkward proximity. His groin makes contact with the curve of Feuilly’s ass and there’s a terrible moment of complete silence as they stare at each other, horrified.

“Um… uh, sorry,” Bahorel manages finally.

Feuilly swallows. “Yeah. Uh… I’ll just, I’ll get off you now.” He shifts and prepares to heave himself off, freeing Bahorel’s arms, but Bahorel takes one look at the smoke drifting from the corners of his mouth, and his brain, in spectacular Bahorel fashion, thinks _you know what? fuck it._

Bahorel reaches out and grabs the back of Feuilly’s neck, pulling him down to his mouth. Feuilly makes a choked noise, before his mouth opens and they’re kissing wildly, teeth and tongues clashing together. Somehow, Bahorel is aware of Feuilly reaching out to drop his half burnt out cigarette into the ash tray on the table, before his arms come to grab Bahorel’s shoulders, gripping him tightly, nails digging into the skin.

They pull away from each other flushed and breathing heavily. Feuilly’s mouth is red, his curly hair a wild mess, now resembling Grantaire’s.

“What the hell was that?” he gasps out. Bahorel shrugs.

“Not sure, but it felt really fucking good.” There’s a pause, before they’re reaching out for each other again, Feuilly pulling Bahorel close against his body as they writhe around on the floor. Feuilly pulls back for a moment.

“I thought you said you weren’t gay?” he asks.

Bahorel looks at him. “Are you?”

“I like to consider myself not caring.”

“Well I’m not gay.”

“So this is weird for you… right?”

Bahorel pulls back, running a hand through his hair. “How about we just call this like… like… releasing tension? I mean, I really need to get laid, and you do to, God knows, and we’re both grown men and-”

“Or maybe we’ve just been spending too much time around Courfeyrac,” Feuilly finishes, pulling himself to his feet and reaching out one hand to pull Bahorel up. “And we’re not gonna talk about this.”

Bahorel nods, and Feuilly pushes past him to his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Bahorel lays in bed, restless, trying desperately not to think about what had happened earlier that evening. Sighing in frustration, he glances at the clock on his bedside table. 3:36am.

He shakes his head and buries his face into the pillow. Slowly, he reaches down one hand to grip himself through his boxers.

 _It’s just releasing tension, there’s nothing to it, there’s nothing weird about it_ says a voice in his brain.

 _Or maybe you could just go up to the man on the second floor and fuck him instead of jerking off like an absolute loser_ , supplies another voice.

Bahorel groans, and knows he’s lost.

 

* * *

 

Feuilly wakes up the instant Bahorel creeps through the door. He’s always been a light sleeper, the result of a childhood spent in an orphanage, and his hand goes to the knife under his pillow without even thinking.

Then he recognizes the scent of Bahorel’s deodorant, faint but still there, and he rolls over, alert.

“Bahorel what the hell it’s nearly four in the morning-” Bahorel shuts him up by grabbing him fiercely and kissing him, pushing him down further onto the bed. They kiss frantically for a while, before Feuilly pulls back and thinks, _Oh God, we’ve done it now-_

“I have condoms beside the bed, but no lube, there’s a pot of Vaseline somewhere-” Bahorel fishes around and retrieves it, looking completely flustered and it’s a good look on him, Feuilly thinks, he would look good screaming into a pillow with his legs spread wide.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Bahorel admits.

“Luckily for me, I have had to listen to Courfeyrac talk about his conquests far too many times,” is Feuilly’s answer, as he goes to grab the waistband of Bahorel’s boxers and yanks them down awkwardly. Bahorel is hard, and he throws back his head with a groan as Feuilly takes him in hand and jerks once, twice.

“Oh Jesus Christ-”

“Don’t bring the Lord into this.”

Bahorel snorts ungracefully.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it in the morning, when Bossuet and Grantaire come down for breakfast. Feuilly drinks his coffee without speaking, and Bahorel pushes his cereal around his bowl.

“You have a fight or something?” asks Bossuet, who is sporting a magnificent hickey on his neck.

Bahorel makes a noise and attempts to disappear into the bowl.

“Nope, my dear Bossuet,” says Grantaire, as he finishes his bowl and takes it to the sink. “If my ears are correct, they both had a lot of fun last night.”

Feuilly’s head turns sharply to look at Grantaire. “I thought you were out last night. What time did you get back?”

“Half past three,” is Grantaire’s answer, and Bahorel groans.

 “Don’t worry,” he replies, patting Bahorel’s shoulder as he leaves the room. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Bossuet looks around the kitchen in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” says Feuilly, as he drains his mug. “Absolutely nothing.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Bossuet found out later.)
> 
> And if you managed to get through all of that, I applaud you.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading/Merci de lire.
> 
> For fic notes, drabbles, questions and possible spin offs, hit me up at [tumblr](http://combeferresque.tumblr.com).


End file.
